


Weddings

by Flangst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, This fic is old, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i just puked up fluffy headcanons for like 3 hours, seriously, this is the result
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flangst/pseuds/Flangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weddings are superfluous, expensive, petty, full of stupid traditions and stupid fights, and fraught with resentment and heartbreak and sentiment (that loathed word)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PART 1

Weddings are superfluous, expensive, petty, full of stupid traditions and stupid fights and fraught with resentment and heartbreak and sentiment (that loathed word). They are ostensibly the celebration of two people who are in love and want to spend the rest of their lives together, but that’s only the façade.

This is the first wedding Sherlock as has ever been (invited) to. It’s everything he expected it to be.

No one asks him to dance. No one kisses him.

It’s Sherlock’s stunned silence when John says like it should be the most obvious thing in the world that “you’re my best friend.” A title Sherlock feels he certainly hasn’t earned. A declaration of love. Someone loves him. No. John loves him.

It’s Sherlock throwing himself fully into the role of both best man and wedding planner. It’s taking each prospective guest aside to analyze them thoroughly (John’s wedding has to be perfect, because John is perfect and he deserves nothing less).

It’s photos of beheadings and Sydney Opera House napkins (a façade, how ironic, in hindsight, that she chose that).

It’s “nothing’s going to change” but Sherlock wants to shout, _it already has!_

It’s signing as a witness and the odd thought that he’s signing away his future, somehow.

It’s Major Sholto and John’s obvious admiration for the man (your ex. Your ex commander. Why didn’t you tell me about him John?) and Sherlock having to tamp down an unexpected swell of jealousy when Mary remarks “Neither of us were the first!”

It’s quite possibly the longest best man speech in history, interrupted by a brief attempted murder and a revelation that nearly shatters Sherlock like Waterford crystal on the stone tiles (It’s you. It’s always been you).

 _Too late Mycroft_ , Sherlock thinks, _I’m already involved._

It’s John’s warm embrace and what Sherlock suspects are choked back tears (he didn’t mean to make everyone cry, people are so emotional) and he wonders if John can feel his heart pounding. It’s the waltz that he composed for the newly wedded couple (for John. I’m in love with you, John).

It’s a first (last) vow. Nominally to the Watson couple, in truth to John. But he includes Mary and the child because they are everything to John. It’s a final, unexpected deduction and a sick feeling when he realizes that he’s already lost John. To his wife and the baby that hasn’t come. He never stood a chance (How can you feel so happy for someone and so like you want to scream at the same time?)

(I love you)

It’s swallowing down the pain and the creeping loneliness and leaving before he starts bleeding feeling all over the floor like an open wound.

It’s a tightly buttoned collar and a tossed boutonniere and a long look that he didn’t quite mean to share with John, but John saw anyhow and turned away. Turned back to Mary, the person he loves. Her. Not Sherlock. The first wedding Sherlock attends makes him realize that he was stabbed and bled out (John. John. John.) long ago. He locks away his (broken, bleeding, wounded) heart and walks away into the cold and the dark and a 7% siren song.

 


	2. PART 2

PART 2

 

Weddings are superfluous, expensive,  ~~petty~~ , full of stupid traditions and stupid fights and fraught with ~~resentment and heartbreak and~~   _sentiment_ (that  ~~loathed~~  word). They are ostensibly the celebration of two people who are in love and want to spend the rest of their lives together ~~, but that’s only the façade.~~

 

The second wedding Sherlock attends doesn’t carry as much personal impact for him, but it is nevertheless important. 

 

It’s the second wedding he is asked to participate in.

 

It’s the first he ever dances with anyone at. 

 

It’s Lestrade’s (obvious) nerves and a little blue box with a little golden ring that hugs Molly’s little ring finger just so. It’s tears (do women cry over  _everything?_ Honestly) and a low, frantic  _yes yes yes yes yes_ and a round of applause and congratulations (from John. But then he’s a romantic).

 

It’s a little over a year since his marriage with Mary has fallen apart. In light of her actions (lying to John—unforgiveable. He should know. The bullet scar he now carries on his torso seems minor in comparison to the pain John has endured) John finds he can’t stay married to her. The divorce is surprisingly quick (Mycroft) and a fragile John moves back to 221B (Sherlock shouldn’t be so pleased at this. But he is—not at John’s suffering but at John’s return. At the restoration of the universe as it should be). 

 

John never could bring himself to read the flash drive. Sherlock did, and was not surprised to find it empty (just like Mary—she no longer needs to fake the pregnancy when Moriarty comes calling on his best hitman). A bluff, a red herring. She’s playing a larger game. They haven’t heard the last of Mary  ~~Watson~~  Morstan (she doesn’t deserve to keep John’s surname). She disappears. She’s good at that.

 

Sherlock watches John cry many times over the child that never was, and the father he’ll never be. 

 

It’s (John knows. He does know) soft glances between them, smiles and the brushing of John’s fingers over his that finally culminate in a (Sherlock commits every moment of this to a new  ~~file room~~  wing in the Mind Palace) quick, soft kiss in the doorway after a Lestrade gets their statements at the police station. A dazed, wobbly Sherlock lets a grinning John lead him home and into his armchair while he makes a pot of Earl Grey (reserved for special occasions). 

 

They are more or less together after that. Surprisingly, few things change. Except there’s no more tiptoeing around the subject, no more wondering and hoping and pining and trying to pretend he hasn’t just seen what he saw. They solve crimes. John blogs about it. Sherlock forgets his pants (sometimes with John’s help). They sit on the couch and watch crap telly and make tea and argue about stupid things and hold hands and cuddle and kiss.

 

It’s the invitation to Molly and Greg’s wedding (her first, hopefully his last) in pink embossed paper (her choice) and curly lettering. Sherlock wonders if John will even consider going. He does and Sherlock sighs dramatically (“Noise, John! People, John!”)

 

It’s Molly shyly taking Sherlock aside in Bart’s mortuary one day and asking him to walk her down the aisle (she told him once he reminded her of her dad, he recalls). Shocked silence ensues before he hesitantly asks if she’s sure. He’s hurt her enough (not as much as John but enough to be contrite). She tells him she’s absolutely sure. He accepts.

 

It’s him taking his seat next to John after walking her to the altar (he tells her she looks beautiful. He means it). It’s amusing himself making deductions about the others guests while she and Lestrade say their vows (her weeping mother in the front row, his cousin with the leg jitter and the darting eyes (he might be trouble). It’s gamely applauding when Molly shows considerably more fire than anyone expected from the demure, sweet young woman and  _kisses the daylights out of the groom._

 

It’s leading Molly out onto the dance floor to stand in for the traditional father-daughter dance and telling her not to worry about everyone staring. It’s him gently correcting her every misstep and the secret smiles they share (he sees it in her eyes now; she’s finally, truly moved on this time). It’s her kissing him on the cheek and her whispered, teary “thank you” and he’s surprised to be so happy that she’s happy.  

 

It’s having to break up a borderline fistfight between an absolutely sloshed Anderson (what does Donovan see in him?) and the cousin with a few well-worded insults. Sherlock receives a black eye for his troubles (the cousin caught him off-guard, he should have noticed the obvious tensing of his right shoulder). John chuckles and sighs and tuts and breaks off a piece of the ice statue to wrap in a napkin, and Sherlock scowls and huffs and straightens his lapels and presses it to his eye. He makes Sherlock promise not to get involved (Doesn’t he know? That never works with Sherlock). He kisses the injury and Sherlock pouts. 

 

It’s Lestrade’s little snorting giggle when he sees Sherlock’s black eye (Sherlock smooth’s over his embarrassment with his best disdainful one-eyed glare) before going off to stop Mrs. Hudson (how much champagne has she had already?) hitting on his recently widowed uncle. 

 

It’s Mycroft’s text ( _Give them my best. Sorry I couldn’t make it_ ) and Sherlock’s response ( _You weren’t invited, you prat_ ) and Mycroft’s response to that (a photo of the invitation). 

 

 _How did they get your address?_  Sherlock types. No response. Smug bastard. 

 

It’s John having to administer some emergency antihistamines to a guest who neglected to mention they were allergic to chocolate (Molly’s favorite) when they cut the cake. It’s Sherlock’s proud smile that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing (That’s  _my_  John. My doctor. My blogger. My helpmate. My partner). 

 

It’s the absolute horror of having to be dragged through bridal party photos. The photographer is a short-sighted, miniscule elderly man with a thick Polish accent (Bohemian Massiff, probably, from the way he pronounces his “m’s”) and has a grip like an iron brace. At least he’s not stabbing people through their belts.

 

Sherlock notes to himself that weddings can be hazardous to one’s ego. 

 

It’s going out to get some air and John following, concerned (worried? He knows what happened at the last wedding). Sherlock reassures him until he stops looking worried (kisses him until the worry lines in his forehead smooth out. John shouldn’t be worried about him). 

 

It’s the eternal embarrassment (he’ll never live this one down, the little Polish man was snapping pictures) of accidentally catching Molly’s bouquet in a moment of carelessness. Not so much catching as it landing in his outstretched hand but the result is the same. Among the catcalls and laughter and dirty jokes and wondering vaguely if all the heat in his face will boil his eyeballs (must investigate further on that matter. John hopefully won’t mind him using the kettle for that) he catches John’s gaze and it is neither mocking nor humored but warm and thoughtful. He wonders if John is wondering too. Then he remembers he’s still got a handful of pinks and tulips and shoves it into the hands of the nearest human being (the maid of honor. Irony?).  

 

(No, he’s not wondering. It’s a silly wedding tradition, nothing more. Meaningless)

 

The second wedding Sherlock attends makes him decide that he’s not going to attend any more unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. He remembers Greg’s name on the first try.


	3. PART 3

PART 3

 

Weddings are  ~~superfluous, expensive, petty,~~  full of  ~~stupid traditions and stupid fights and fraught with resentment and heartbreak and~~   _sentiment_ ~~(that loathed word).~~  They are  ~~ostensibly~~  the celebration of two people who are in love and want to spend the rest of their lives together,  ~~but that’s only the façade.~~

 

The third wedding Sherlock attends is the biggest and most important day of his life. 

 

It’s two years after Moriarty’s (actual—he made damn sure this time) death, the final dismantling of his empire, and a little more peace in their lives. Mary is long gone (according to Mycroft she’s relocated to America and moved on with her life, now that Moriarty isn’t a shadow over her shoulder). 

 

It’s the third wedding he participates in.

 

It’s the second time he ever dances with anyone. It’s the first time he kisses someone.

 

It’s the first time he’s ever gotten married (it’ll be the only time. He’s unshakably certain of this fact. It’s not sentiment. It’s  _logic,_ how could it not be?).

 

It’s John puttering nervously around the flat, doing a lot of useless things to keep himself busy until Sherlock has enough and demands to know what’s going on with him.

 

John’s not one to mince words. “Well. We’re already… together, and living together, anyways. Right?” (Sherlock dignifies this one with an eye roll) “Right. Well.” Lip lick. Sherlock thinks it’s kind of cute. “How about marrying me?”

 

Hold on. Rewind. Reboot. What? 

 

“I mean.” Hands kneading the fabric of his trousers. He’s nervous. Sherlock wants to say something but funnily enough his voice has deserted him. “I mean, we’re practically a married couple anyhow, and… I want to make it official. If… if you’ll have me, Sherlock, I want to marry you.” Salvaging it. He kneels in front of the frozen detective in his armchair. “I love you. There’s no one else I want to spend the rest of my life with. I’ve known that for years, and this time I’m absolutely certain.” The unspoken  _the last time was a mistake and I’m sorry._ “I want to get old with you and follow you on cases and find eyeballs in the tea kettle and listen to you play the violin and wake up next to you for the rest of my life.”

“Will you marry me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”  A tentative smile and John bracing himself for a long wait (and a possible no? Never, John, never).

 

Yes. Yes. YES. Sherlock answers faster than he expected to. He doesn’t even tear up (proud of that). John gets his answer when he gets an armful of ecstatic (Sherlock’s brand of ecstatic) consulting detective and falls backwards onto the rug.

 

“That’s a yes, then?” he chuckles, a little stunned, a lot pleased.

 

“Obviously,” replies Sherlock before kissing his  ~~boyfriend~~  fiancé properly. (John sheepishly admits he didn’t get a ring, some hours later, when they’re still lying on the rug. Sherlock is pleased that John knows him so well—engagement rings are pointless and silly and expensive). 

 

Their wedding isn’t very big or very public. It’s held outside, in the late summer (Sherlock determines that sort of Indian summer light is very flattering on John). 

 

His parents come. Harry comes. Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson come (she utterly breaks down sobbing when they tell her and bakes them a cake). Mike Stamford comes (Sherlock included a thank you note with his invitation). Angelo comes. Bill Wiggins comes after showering several times. Janine comes, having finally made her peace with Sherlock when he gives her a proper apology. Donovan and Anderson come and Sherlock’s annoyed about that for a while but he gets over it. The Woman doesn’t come, but he gets a rather suggestive congratulatory text anyways.

 

Mycroft comes. His response when Sherlock texts him the announcement ( _We’re engaged. John proposed yesterday. Just thought you’d like to know)_ is typical Mycroft ( _Finally. Thought I might die of old age before that happened. My congratulations)._ And later,  _(Would you like to tell Mummy or should I?)._

 

He’s Sherlock’s best man. Sentiment can be a bitch.

 

It’s not a very long affair (Sherlock pares their vows down) and there’s no bouquet to toss though they do have matching boutonnieres (white roses. Cliché but effective. Mycroft knows weird things). It’s a sudden awful bout of wedding nerves mere hours before and sweating palms and shaking legs and wondering if he can pull himself together enough to marry this man. Mycroft isn’t particularly comforting in that respect either. No wonder he’s still single. 

 

(When they sign the legal form Sherlock feels like he’s carving their story in stone. Holmes and Watson. Watson and Holmes)

 

It’s a plain silver band around his finger, and a gold one around John’s (conductor of light.  _Mine)_ and his actual last vow (all the things he already does, having and holding for better or worse so long as they both shall live I do I do I do) and forgetting where they are when John kisses him. Mummy cries almost as much as Mrs. Hudson. John beams at him and Sherlock still can’t believe this incredible man is all his. 

 

He may have cried a little bit.

 

It’s not being overwhelmed by having other people around for once when he sits with John at the head of the table, holding hands on top of the tablecloth (it’s no secret now, why bother to hide anything?). No one gets drunk, but Mycroft and Harry take turns telling embarrassing stories about their respective younger brothers. 

 

It’s dancing with John in the solitude of their flat (their home) and John murmuring “I love you” into his ear and being able to say it back with the full weight of what they’ve just done behind it (the evidence glinting on his left ring finger). 

 

“I love you, John Watson. I always will.” (Logic. Obvious) 

 

The third wedding Sherlock attends is unavoidable but that’s all right with him. He is tied to John Watson in every way now. His partner. His lover. His husband. His soul’s mate. His other (better) half. 

 

His conductor of light. For now and for always.


End file.
